


Influence

by BirdOfHermes



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Dessert & Sweets, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Baggage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flirting, Food Sex, Kitchen Sex, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Ransom Drysdale Being an Asshole, Rehabilitation, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Whipped Cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22502995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdOfHermes/pseuds/BirdOfHermes
Summary: Marta Cabrera is a nurse. She saves people. Sometimes from themselves. A Knives Out AU prequel.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale, Marta Cabrera/Ransom Thrombey
Comments: 52
Kudos: 850





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, this movie has possessed me yet again. Also, my life fucking sucks and this is the only way I can deal with anything--channeling it into fanfiction, so here we go again. Once more, disclaimer: in-canon Ransom Drysdale's a fucking racist asshole prick and he deserved what he fucking got in the end. However, I am still fascinated by the idea of his character if he had gone another way and hadn't been irredeemable flaming garbage in the end. 
> 
> I'd like to think that maybe it's possible that if he'd known Marta in the years prior to Harlan's decision to alter the will, maybe he could've become a different man, and notably one who wouldn't murder his grandfather. So this is a series of what if scenarios of a slowly blossoming relationship between Marta and Ransom. Won't be a true slowburn, but it doesn't happen right off the bat. Enjoy.

_Now we’re broken on the floor_

_She just wants me to share her_

_It hasn’t been this way before_

_She just wants me to dare her_

_The phone rings_

_And she screams_

_Stab my back_

_It’s better when I bleed for you_

_You walk on me_

_It never was enough to do_

_I can’t get past her_

_Falling faster_

_True, it hasn’t done a lot for you_

_-“Stab My Back” by The All-American Rejects_

“Ah, Marta, my girl!” Harlan Thrombey grinned from the screened in porch as he heard her shuffling steps as she entered the house. “Perfect timing. Come here, I need you.”

Marta knocked off a few snowflakes from her shoulders and walked out into the brisk air, surprised to find that Harlan wasn’t alone like usual. There, flopped into the futon as if he belonged there, was Harlan’s grandson, Ransom. Or Hugh, as he demanded that “the help” call him. Though, strangely, he didn’t insist that she do so, but that was probably because she was rarely in a room with him for more than about two minutes. Ransom’s fly-by visits rarely were during her work hours.

“Ransom,” she said, nodding politely. He gave her a careless flick of his fingers and then sipped his scotch, not meeting her eyes.

“I just suffered yet another crushing defeat at the hands of this rambunctious youth,” Harlan lamented, gesturing to the Go board on the table between the two Thrombey men. “I think you ought to serve him a slice of humble pie by beating him at his own game.”

“Really?” Ransom snarked. “You think the nurse can save you?”

“The nurse,” Harlan said, narrowing his eyes. “Has a name. A very pretty name, in fact. I suggest you use it, young man, if you want to stay in this house and not out in the cold for the foreseeable future.”

Ransom just rolled his eyes. Marta resisted the urge to scowl at him and instead addressed Harlan. “I don’t really think that’s appropriate. This is your time together. I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, come on, Marta. Tell me you don’t want to wipe that smug smile off his face like everyone else does.”

Marta bit her lip to keep from smiling at the incredulous expression Ransom gave his grandfather. But unfortunately, Ransom was also perceptive; he noticed the uptick of her lips and frowned at her. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you, nurse? Maybe you ought to take a seat and prove if you’re as good as the old man claims you are.”

“This is not a competition,” Marta said firmly. “I play for fun. Never for stakes. It defeats the purpose.”

“The purpose,” Ransom said, sitting forward in his seat and setting the drink down. “Is to win, sweetheart. That’s the point of a game.”

Marta bristled then. “In your opinion, Ransom.”

“And my opinion is also that the old man lets you beat him out of pity, so I can infer that we’re not going to see eye to eye.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she sat down across from him. “Fine. Which pieces do you prefer?”

“The black.” They cleared the board. Ransom gave her a condescending wink. “Ladies first.”

Marta ignored it and placed her first piece. Ransom countered. He locked eyes with her for the first several moves, his gaze hot and arrogant and self-assured.

And it changed about halfway through when he started to lose.

She watched his thick lashes turn downward as he stared at the board, his movements far slower as he began to understand his mistakes. Marta waited patiently. Ransom chewed on a fingernail, examining it from every possible angle, going for one last ditch effort to stop her, but it had been too late a few moves ago.

Marta soundly beat him.

Ransom’s nostrils flared as Harlan chuckled openly and reached for his pipe, lighting it. “Told you so.”

“Shut up,” Ransom snapped. He glared at Marta. “Again.”

Marta kept the same serene expression as they cleared the board and played again. She won. “Again.”

They played. She won. “Again.”

They played. She won. “Again.”

They played. She won. Ransom exhaled a curse and kicked at the table as he sat back in the futon, his ears red as he listened to Harlan’s cheerful, mocking chortling. Marta cleared the board and just looked across at Ransom, calm as ever. His jaw clenched. Somehow, her refusal to brag seemed to make him even angrier. She wasn’t a spiteful person, but she felt a warm sense of satisfaction having thoroughly proven him wrong.

“You’re both in on this,” Ransom growled. “You set me up.”

“What?” Harlan asked. “You think I had enough time to memorize your moves and tell them to Marta so she could counter them all? Sorry, kid, but I’ve got a company to run and books to write. Miss Cabrera is a natural born talent at the game. Nothing but pure skill.”

“Harlan,” she warned. “There’s no need for that sort of talk.”

“Oh, don’t even try it, brown eyes,” Ransom sneered. “Like you’re not soaking this all up.”

“I told you,” she said. “I play for fun. Not to win. Perhaps you should consider it next time.”

She pulled the velvet bag containing her white pieces shut and promptly left the porch. Once she was safely in the kitchen making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, she allowed herself a victorious smile.

But just one.

* * *

It turned out she wasn’t the only one capable of surprises.

She came in from the snow a week later and found Ransom sprawled on the futon yet again, but Harlan wasn’t with him this time. She’d started to walk past with her usual polite greeting, but he’d called out to her before she could go.

“Nurse Cabrera,” Ransom said. “Got somewhere to be?”

“Shortly, yes,” she said, checking her watch. “My shift starts soon.”

“I’ve been studying up. I want a rematch.”

Marta nearly sighed. “Considering what an attitude you get when we play, I would rather not. And your grandfather is not here, so you will feel even less inclined to be civil towards me.”

He held up a hand in supplication. “Fair enough. I’ve got a short temper. But I couldn’t get last weekend out of my head. I want to try again.”

Ransom paused. “If you’re willing.”

Marta crossed her arms. “No more than three games. That’s all the time I have.”

“Three’s enough.”

She strode over and sat, popping open the bag. This time, Ransom went first. They played. He moved slower, but with the same kind of blind confidence as before. Perhaps he’d expected that her victory had been a fluke. Maybe he’d been too brash when he played her the first time.

But the result was still the same.

Granted, he gathered more points, but she beat him soundly all three times. He didn’t kick the table this time, just scowling at the pieces as if they’d disappointed him somehow. He just shook his head and snorted, “Who are you, Nurse Cabrera?”

It was an odd question. It almost sounded like he’d asked himself that query. She gave him a small smile. “Someone who doesn’t want to be late for her shift. Excuse me.”

She rose and headed upstairs to see Harlan.

* * *

Harlan had always said that two times could be a coincidence, but three was a conspiracy.

“Marta,” Ransom said, his blue eyes especially bright against the white-grey sky behind him.

“Ransom,” she said. “This is becoming a habit, I see.”

He shrugged. “I’m just like any other guy out there.”

He smirked before continuing. “Can’t resist getting my ass kicked by a pretty girl.”

Marta snorted and rolled up her sleeves as she walked onto the porch and sat. “Cheap flattery will not get me to show you any mercy.”

“Oh, my flattery is very expensive, Nurse Cabrera,” he drawled. “Play your cards right and there’s some Dulce and Gabbana under the Christmas tree with your name on it this year.”

She let a light laugh escape as she opened her bag of Go pieces. “I am afraid I am not a fan of the brand. Save your money.”

“Well, it’s not like it took a genius to figure out where you shop,” he said, earning himself a glare. “And it ain’t at Neiman Marcus.”

“I have no use for labels,” she sniffed. “I wear scrubs mostly anyway.”

“Mm. Quite well, I might add.”

“You’re not going to distract me,” she said, placing her first piece.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“I can and I will.”

She won the first game. Ransom rubbed at his chin. “The hell are you doing to me?”

“I am playing a game. I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Having an existential crisis.” They played again. She noted he played even more carefully than the previous time, less anger in it, more curiosity. She could see the cogs turning in his head, but he certainly didn’t get it just yet.

She beat him twice more. He just shook his head at the pieces again. Marta let out a little breath. “Do you want a tip?”

“A pity tip?” he grunted.

“Call it what you like.”

“Yeah, fine. Amaze me.”

“You’re in your head too much,” she said, brushing off her leggings as she stood. “Get out of it and you might do better next time.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I notice you didn’t say win.”

“No,” she said, smiling and batting her lashes at him. “I did not.”

* * *

She thought nothing of their weekly routine as a month rolled by, figuring that Ransom would obsess over her constant victories for a while, get bored, and move on, unchanged. Meg’s birthday rolled around and the family did its usual extravagant, hollow birthday dinner with painfully expensive gifts that Meg wasn’t the least bit interested in. Marta stood near the fireplace, idly sipping an iced tea as Linda and Joni argued over which tired party game to try next before they cut the cake. She heard footsteps and then smelled expensive cologne—just a whiff, nothing too strong—and Ransom brushed by her, a scotch in his large hand.

“Marta,” he said, lazily propping his back against the worn stone on the mantle.

“Ransom.”

“How’s life?” He reached up and plucked a few peanuts out of a bowl on the mantle.

“Unchanged. You?”

“Unchanged. I hear the old man’s release party is next weekend. Going?”

“Maybe.” Marta cast a sidelong glance at him. “Why?”

“Just making small talk.”

She pursed her lips. “You hate small talk, Ransom.”

He snorted. “I really do, but my other choices are listening to Joni passive aggressively wheedle my mother into the game she wants to play or hanging out with the Nazi. I’m choosing the lesser evil here and boring you with small talk instead.”

“Well, they’re not really paying attention,” she said with a bit of a sly tone. “We could sneak away during the commotion.”

Ransom widened his eyes innocently. “But Marta, we’re _family_. We’re supposed to stick together. Like glue. Or cancer cells.”

Some of her iced tea squirted out of her nose as she choked on a laugh. Ransom grinned. She slapped his forearm and glared, grabbing a napkin from nearby. “You are awful.”

“Mm-hmm. I like your idea, though. Bail on three?”

Marta winced as a particularly shrill noise left Joni. “On three.”

Ransom angled himself to one side and casually started to edge towards the study. Marta did the same. “One…two…three.”

They both slipped out of the living room. Neither heard footsteps or calls after them, to which they both breathed a sigh of relief. Harlan had the door to his study most of the way shut, but not all the way to avoid seeming totally antisocial. They tiptoed in and shut the door, causing the old man to glance up and smile. “It’s a battle out there, I hear.”

“As always,” Ransom grunted, plopping down into a chair. “How goes the editing?”

“Horrible,” Harlan admitted, setting his reading glasses down. “I’d rather pass a kidney stone than read another sentence. The guy who wrote this is such a schmuck.”

“Tell me about it.” Ransom chuckled as Marta smacked his arm.

“At least he keeps me honest.” Harlan’s eyes twinkled with mischief briefly. “And from the sound of it, you’re keeping him humble. Still hasn’t beaten you once, has he?”

Marta just shrugged. Ransom snorted. “Yet.”

“Well, Thrombey men never lose gracefully,” Harlan admitted. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

Ransom’s long lashes lowered over his eyes as he stared at Marta, an easy smirk on his lips. “We’ll see about that.”

Unbeknownst to them both, Harlan hid a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marta has an impromptu lunch date with Ransom.

Marta was outside the next time she saw him, playing fetch with the dogs. They immediately swarmed him, barking and growling, until she shushed them. Ransom scowled as they trotted to her, all smiles again, like she was their ray of sunshine. “How do you get them to do that?”

“Being nice,” Marta said, scratching their ears. She gave him an amused look. “Oh, sorry, let me explain. Being nice is when you’re polite and thoughtful to other people.”

Ransom snorted. “Got a mouth on you, don’t you, nurse?”

“I was merely trying to clarify.” She stood and dusted some of the fur off her hands. “But you can start by doing something that is familiar to you.”

Ransom arched an eyebrow. She smiled prettily. “Bribing them into liking you.”

“Ha-ha,” he said dryly. She withdrew a little Ziploc bag from her pocket that had treats in them and passed them to Ransom. He gave it a scrutinizing look as he popped the bag open and cringed as the smell of the meat-flavored treats hit his nostrils. “God, I can’t believe they eat this stuff.”

“They’re dogs. The stinkier the food, the more they love it. Hence dog breath.”

“Gross.” He plucked a treat out and offered it to one dog. The dog eyed him, but crept forward and snapped it out of his hand. Ransom flinched a bit, but held another one out for the second dog, who did the same. They chomped into their treats, tails wagging, their hostility towards his presence effectively quelled for the moment. Ransom tossed her the baggie and dusted off his hands, gagging as he smelled his fingers. “Dogs. I don’t get the appeal.”

“They’re loyal and compassionate, but they’re also reliable.” She paused. “They also know how to detect other predators, which is useful.”

Ransom shifted on the gravel enough to face her. He was a good head and shoulders taller, towering over her small form, broad and brash and conspicuous. She didn’t back down. He’d always thought she seemed shy, but he was quickly realizing that wasn’t the case.

“Is that an accusation, Miss Cabrera?” Ransom asked with a great deal of amusement in his tone.

“Just an observation, Ransom.” Marta glanced at the house. “Harlan’s in his study.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m here to see him.”

Marta blinked. “Huh?”

“Maybe I’m here to see you.”

She eyed him. “Are you ill?”

Ransom blinked once, slowly, and then smiled. “Wow. So you’re just that naïve, then, huh?”

“Why else would you need to see me, Ransom?”

He huffed. “Christ, you’re a piece of work. I’m starting to regret this already.”

“Regret what?”

“Do you want to go get some lunch or not, woman?”

Marta stared at him. She then glanced to and fro. “What the hell are you doing?” Ransom demanded.

“Looking for cameras,” she said frankly. “Are you pulling some kind of prank?”

Ransom rolled his eyes extremely hard. “Look, when you’re done with the comedy routine, I’ll be in the car. Just gotta wash the dog stench off first.”

She watched him, bewildered, as he headed inside and then reappeared a couple minutes later. He opened the driver’s side door and gave her a sharp look. “I haven’t got all day, you know.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “You don’t have a job, Ransom.”

“A technicality. You in or out, Cabrera?”

She licked her lips, eyeing his expensive car. “You’ll bring me straight back here?”

“I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Hurry it up. I’m starving.”

Marta glanced at the dogs. They both sat facing Ransom, tails lightly wagging, brown eyes inquisitive and interested. She sighed as her stomach growled as well. “Fine.”

She shuffled over to the passenger’s side and climbed in. Her seatbelt was hardly on when he peeled out down the long driveway off the estate.

“In the mood for Thai, but I’ll take suggestions,” Ransom said.

“Thai is good,” Marta said. “And what are you scheming, Ransom?”

“Dunno what you mean.”

She folded her arms. “I have worked for Harlan for quite some time. Then I regularly beat you at Go and now you suddenly want to take me to lunch.”

“Your point?”

“Why? What do you hope to gain from this? I know you’re not the least bit interested in who I am.”

“You know that, huh?” he drawled. “In your heart of hearts, you’ve just got me all figured out, right? There’s no chance that I might surprise you.”

Marta shifted in her seat a bit guiltily. “I…suppose that is fair.”

“Judge not lest ye be judged. I think we both have been walking around my grandfather’s house making assumptions about each other. I figured this was as good a time as any to see if any of it’s based on truth. Not saying we need to be best gal pals. Just saying that out of my entire family, you’re probably the only one remotely worth talking to aside from Grandad.”

Marta fought to keep her jaw from dropping. She’d really never heard him say this much in one sitting. Ransom seemed like a cold, distant satellite member of the Thrombey clan. When he did visit, it was only for a short time, and mostly only to see Harlan. They argued, but they still got along better than the other members of the family. The Thrombeys always insisted on family first, but Marta knew better. The name of the game was “stay in Harlan’s favor and continue reaping the benefits.” Practically the only sincere one among them was Meg, and even then, she had her moments of selfishness. Ransom was a smug, privileged jerk, but he never acted falsely in front of Harlan, not once. The two men had a brutal honesty to their relationship that while often abrasive was refreshing to Marta.

“That’s inaccurate,” she said finally. “Meg is worth talking to.”

“Meg thinks Bernie Sanders is a legitimate presidential candidate,” Ransom said severely. Marta tried not to smile. It was a little funny, though mean of him to say, but that was nothing new.

“I don’t know how you manage to bite your tongue every time they start the fucking Trump debate,” Ransom groaned, settling into the driver’s seat as they reached the highway. “Makes me want to projectile vomit all over the rug.”

Marta shrugged. “I’ve gotten numb to it by now. Nothing I haven’t heard a thousand times before.”

“Yeah, but the way they try to pretend as if this shit’s about anything aside from money is what pisses me off,” he grumbled. “I can’t stand it. Might as well have a giant blinking neon sign that says, ‘as long as he’s giving me constant tax breaks, I’ll pretend like I stand with anything he does.’ For fuck’s sake. You’d think they could just be real about it when they’re so goddamn obvious.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “It exhausts me, but it’s not my place to say anything otherwise.”

“But that’s what they want, you know,” he said, frowning. “They want you to be submissive about it. They think it reinforces their ideas. I think maybe next time you ought to say something.”

Marta shrugged and picked at a stray thread on her sweater. “It would just make the arguments even louder. They’re not listening. It’s just a…a….”

“Circle jerk?”

She cringed. “Not so graphic.”

Ransom laughed. “You’re cute. Fine. It’s a bunch of rich baby boomers patting each other on the back pretending to be tolerant when they’re really just self-interested. Not saying I have a fucking leg to stand on—I didn’t even vote in the last election—but I’ll be damned if I fake it the way they do. I’d rather just be a rich asshole than pretend I’m magnanimous.”

“And that’s enough for you?” she asked quietly.

Ransom shrugged. “It’s all I’ve ever known. Works out for me pretty well.”

“Mm.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I think if that were true, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”

Ransom sent her a long, thoughtful look. “Point taken.”

The Thai restaurant he took her to was about what she’d expect of a Thrombey. Everything on the menu—even the appetizers and desserts—were over $20. She had no idea what Ransom’s state of mind was; he was mercurial to say the least. He could pick up the tab just to mess with her or go Dutch since he wasn’t dating her. She decided to play it safe and ordered a salad and water. He didn’t comment, so she decided he’d probably want to go Dutch on the meal.

“Tell me something,” Ransom said after they’d ordered and he was spearing a dumpling with a fork. “Do you ever get bored with Grandad?”

“I thought I would, but no,” she admitted with a small smile. “He surprises me often. He’s quite unpredictable.”

“Makes his books good,” Ransom agreed. “Do you read them?”

“Some. I don’t much have a stomach for murder mysteries.”

Ransom smirked. “Funny you mention stomach. That puking thing is still the weirdest shit I’ve ever heard of in my life. I have to assume you were a good girl in your rebellious teens years since it meant you could never lie to your mother.”

“Do I strike you as a good girl?” Marta almost did a double take as the question simply… _sprang_ out of her. She wasn’t usually so bold or quick on the draw. She preferred defense over offense, wanting to stay in the background and not in the limelight. Ransom was a bad influence.

He grinned. “The Virgin Mary ain’t got shit on you.”

Marta bristled. “I thought you said not to assume things about one another.”

“Prove me wrong.” He ate another dumpling. “Tell me you’ve done something devious, Marta. Tell me your deepest, darkest secret.”

Marta rolled her eyes. “As if you will not later use it to blackmail me somehow.”

Ransom touched his chest. “Marta. You’re family. I would never.”

Again, she bit back a smile as he batted those long lashes at her. “I am afraid I don’t have some deep, dark secret, Ransom. I’ve never done anything crazy or illegal.”

“Well, since you’re not upchucking the dumplings, I have to assume you’re right,” he groused, disappointed. Then something sly entered his gaze. “Ever thought about me naked?”

Marta sat stock-still. Ransom’s grin stretched ear to ear. She didn’t know what to do. Admitting as much would make him unbelievably smug and satisfied, but she was in the middle of an upscale restaurant and didn’t want to puke on the spotless white tablecloth. Marta blushed and quickly thought up a solution. “I will neither confirm nor deny it.”

“Ah,” Ransom said, slinking back in his chair. “So that’s how you get around it sometimes. Cute.”

“Asshole,” she hissed.

Ransom laughed. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Sorry, it was too easy. You blush pretty, by the way. Your whole face just looks like a radish when you get embarrassed.”

She flicked a bit of rice at him and he ducked. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

Ransom’s voice took on a sultry tone. “Have I thought about you naked?”

“I don’t care.”

Ransom’s grin turned a little pointy. “Yes, you do.”

Marta carefully didn’t deny it. The dumplings had been delicious and she didn’t want them splattered all over the floor. “Do you sexually harass all your lunch dates or am I just special?”

“Oh, Marta,” he purred. “Don’t ask rhetorical questions.”

The waiter rescued her from formulating a response by bringing their meals. Hers was exceptional. She hated the idle rich, but had to admit she understood why they protected their money so fiercely. Money could often supply so many fine things that she could appreciate. She just refused to become a slave to that sort of lifestyle the way the Thrombeys had.

The check came. They split it, as she’d predicted. She assumed Ransom only paid for his date’s meals, and she shuddered to think what he’d be like on a date.

But…he hadn’t been wrong about the naked thing.

She didn’t like to admit it to herself, but Ransom was a work of art. Hard, long lines made up his chest and abs and his biceps swelled so perfectly with cut muscles, to say nothing of his firm, round ass and long, athletic legs and thick, perfect hair, square chin, blue eyes, thick lashes, and based on how he swaggered around, probably a nice, thick—

“Dessert?” Ransom asked, pointing towards the candy shop across the street and catapulting Marta out of her embarrassing thoughts.

“Oh, uh, only if you want, I don’t have any more cash.”

Ransom chuckled. “My treat this time. Kind of got my eye on a caramel apple.”

She considered it. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Okay.”

Marta checked the street, starting to walk, but then a courier on a bike zipped off the sidewalk and barreled straight for her. Ransom jerked hard on her arm and dragged her out of the way, barking out, “Fucking watch it, asshole!” She found herself in the shelter of his brawny arms, blinking up at him from inches away, fully aware of just how solid he was against her tiny form. He scowled as the courier flipped him the bird before he cut around another pedestrian and kept going. Ransom muttered more foul curses and then glanced down at her. “You okay, nurse?”

“Y-Yes,” she said, extracting herself from his arms. His fingers curled underneath her jacket, near the small of her back, as if not wanting to let go just yet. She filed that away for later.

“Geez,” he growled, taking her elbow. “No wonder you need the guard dogs around. You’ve got to be more aware of your surroundings, Cabrera.”

She snorted as they jogged across the busy street once the light changed. “That was a fluke. I’m not usually caught off-guard so easily.”

“Ooh, that sounds like a challenge.”

Marta’s brown eyes sparkled up at him. “Well, we see how good you are at Go. Are you sure you want that challenge, Ransom?”

“Ha-ha,” he grumbled as he tugged the door open. “Low blow, nurse.”

The candy shop owners greeted them warmly and told them they could sample anything they wanted. Marta’s mouth watered as she surveyed all the sweets, trying to decide the best one while Ransom simply pointed at the coveted giant caramel apple in the window. She finally settled on a bear claw: a bed of fresh pecans covered in a generous dollop of homemade caramel and then a thick topping of milk chocolate. The female shop owner—a stocky woman in her fifties—chuckled lightly at the delighted look on Marta’s face as she passed her the confection.

“Your girlfriend has excellent taste,” she said, giving him an appraising glance.

Marta nearly inhaled a pecan.

Ransom winked at the shop owner before biting into his apple. “You have no idea.”

They exited the shop, Marta’s cheeks sizzling, Ransom’s smirk insufferable as always. She crunched into her treat, cooling off as they headed towards the car. “Do you ever get tired of that?” she asked.

“What?”

“Women throwing themselves at you.”

“You’d think so,” Ransom said, licking caramel off the corner of his mouth. “But no.”

Marta shook her head. Ransom eyed her. “Hey, don’t judge me, nurse. You wanna tell me you get tired of guys falling over themselves to ask you out?”

She gave him a puzzled look. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, so frankly that she missed a step as she walked. “Petite, dark hair, full pouty lips, nice bod, big brown eyes? Forget it. Guys must be yapping at your heels every ten feet.”

Her blush cranked itself up several more levels. “They don’t.”

“Do you hang out in gay bars or something?” She smacked him before she could help it.

“I am not every man’s preference,” she told him, exasperated. “I don’t get chased.”

Ransom tossed the apple core and popsicle stick into a nearby trashcan and popped open the passenger’s side door for her. “Hmm…isn’t that a shame?”

Marta cocked her head to one side, the last bite of bear claw between two fingers. “Is it?”

Ransom smiled mysteriously. Then he leaned down and ate the last bite of her treat. His lips were very warm and shockingly soft against her fingertips. He chewed thoughtfully, as if considering something, drinking in the deer-in-headlights expression on her face. “I’d say it is.”

Her voice didn’t seem to want to work, so she just slid into her seat and tried to forget her tingling fingertips as Ransom chuckled to himself and got in on the other side to take her back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little dinner and a little deal.

“—and it turns out it was the butler!”

Marta shook her head at Fran, smiling. “That is so tacky.”

Fran shrugged and sipped her tea. “Hell, I liked it. It’s a good distraction, something to come home and de-stress to after a long day.”

She nudged Marta’s elbow gently, careful not to disturb the red bean stew she was currently stirring on the stove. “Which, by the way, maybe you should look into. You work long hours. What are you doing to unwind at the end of the night?”

Marta shrugged. “I don’t know. Talk with Mama or my sister.”

Fran smirked. “Still no boyfriend?”

Marta huffed. “Men do not de-stress you. They only add stress.”

“Is that right?” Ransom said loudly from where he leaned against the doorway.

Marta yipped and almost dropped her ladle. She aimed a glare at him over her shoulder. “Announce yourself in someone else’s house, Ransom.”

He grinned easily. “Well, this is going to be my house someday. Technically, I don’t have to announce myself.”

Marta scowled at him. “That is not a nice thing to say.”

“But it is probably true.” He pushed off the wall and walked towards the pantry, reaching into it for a bag of pita chips. Fran’s whole demeanor shifted as if he’d hit a switch. She didn’t even bother a smile as she passed by him to leave, as she almost always did.

“Hugh.”

“Fran.”

She left the kitchen with quick, hard steps. Marta sighed and shook her head. “Why do you do that to her?”

“Do what?” Ransom asked as he walked over, crunching into the chips.

“Force her to call you a name that you don’t even like.”

“Ask Linda. She’s the one who brought me up to make a separation between myself and the people who work for me.”

“She doesn’t work for you,” Marta shot back. “She works for Harlan.”

“Same umbrella. Linda says don’t let them get too familiar. Establish boundaries.”

“Then why do you let me call you Ransom?”

He kept chewing, his stare unreadable. “Why indeed.”

Ransom then nodded towards the silver pot. “What’s that?”

“Red bean stew,” she answered. “Harlan had a craving.”

“You cook?”

“Not often for him, but sometimes he wants to try something new.” She reached for the seasoning salt. Ransom handed it to her. Their fingers brushed each other and she fought down a shiver. She added it to the stew and stirred, then selected a spoon. She tasted the broth.

“How is it?”

“Good,” she said. “I make it less spicy when I make it for him. He’s technically not supposed to have any, but you know Harlan.”

“Yeah. He’s not happy unless he’s got a vice.” Ransom opened the drawer and found his own spoon. She expected him to simply reach across to try it or hand the spoon to her, but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped up behind her and slid his arm beneath hers to scoop a little out. The movement bumped his hips and chest along her back, a seemingly harmless but quite intentional gesture. Her breath caught, but she didn’t say a word. Mercifully, it was only a second of sensation, for he eased away and tasted the soup.

“Not bad,” he said after a mouthful. “Mind if I have a bowl once it’s done?”

“No.”

“Thanks.”

Marta nearly dropped the ladle again. She glanced at him quickly to see him smirking, knowing she’d have a reaction to one of the most elusive words for Ransom Drysdale. In true form, he changed the subject before she could comment on it. “Got anywhere to be?”

“Not especially,” she answered with a wary look.

“Good. Jeopardy’s on.” He brushed past her and headed for the entertainment room. Marta watched him go, equal parts fascinated and baffled. It was only a few more minutes of simmering, so she popped popcorn and dumped it into a bowl, then shut off the stove to let the soup cool and trailed after Ransom.

As always, he had stretched most of his long frame out across the couch like a big cat of some sort. He’d kicked off his expensive designer boots, leaving him in a sweater and jeans. He looked quite comfortable and she knew for a fact he smelled wonderful. A tiny part of her ached to settle in next to him to see if he would be as warm as he looked. She brushed off the thought and took the spot at the opposite end of the couch, crunching into the popcorn. He reached over to share it with her, their hands grazing on occasion and giving her confusing feelings. 

She immediately found that they watched Jeopardy the exact same way, answering questions and groaning in annoyance when the contestants blew the easy ones. Ransom had a knack for art and history related questions, Marta for geography and biology. Between the two of them, they would have racked up rather impressive totals had they been the contestants.

Halfway through the show, she took a bowl of soup up to Harlan in the attic and then made one for herself, Ransom, and Fran. Fran had gone into a separate bedroom to watch her stories and gave her a shrewd look when she told her she’d been watching Jeopardy with Ransom.

“What’s with him lately?” she asked. “He seems…different.”

“How so?” Marta asked, feigning ignorance.

“He’s here way more often, for one. For two, he actually looks you in the eye when he talks to you and not at your chest like he’s trying to use his X-ray vision.”

Marta nearly choked on a bean. “Ransom is still Ransom, trust me. I think he just made a miscalculation and he’s trying to course correct.”

“Be careful,” Fran warned. “He’s a wolf. He’ll eat you alive if you let him.”

Marta started to say, “I won’t,” but then her stomach lurched dangerously. She gave a start as she realized somehow…that felt like a lie.

Instead, she just nodded to Fran and scurried out of the room, muttering, “Oh God.”

Marta returned to the kitchen, poured herself a little scotch, and drank it in one go. She stood there with her eyes closed, breathing elevated, reminding herself to take it easy. One stray thought didn’t mean anything. She was fine. Nothing to be concerned about. Ransom loved games. He was simply playing one with her now. He’d grow bored of her and look for the next shiny thing. It was only a matter of time.

Or so she hoped.

Ransom was scraping his bowl clean when she returned. A warm sense of pride filled her, enough that she chuckled slightly. “You act like you’ve never had a home cooked meal.”

“I haven’t,” Ransom said coldly. “Linda doesn’t cook. Neither does my father.”

Marta winced. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, placing the bowl on the coffee table. “Plenty of fine chefs came through the house when I grew up, so I had plenty of things to try.”

Marta thought of all the dishes her mother cooked and had taught her along the way, making sure she understood the most important things about preparing a dish for a loved one. She chewed her bottom lip and debated with herself. “Do you want to learn?”

Ransom’s dark brows lifted. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you want to learn how to make that?” She pointed to the empty bowl.

Ransom peered at her. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

“Why do it myself when I pay someone else to do it for me?”

“To learn something new.” She realized his ego may have been preventing him from taking her seriously and thought of another angle. “How about we trade off? I teach you how to make the stew and you can teach me something I don’t know how to do.”

Ransom smirked. “Lie?”

Marta rolled her eyes. “No, Ransom.”

He chuckled. “Fine. What do you want to know how to do?”

She tapped her fingertip to her lip. Ransom watched intently. “I don’t know how to play pool. You have a pool table at your place, yes?”

Ransom’s lashes lowered over his eyes. “Why, Marta, did you just invite yourself over to my place?”

Her cheeks flushed with color as she realized how it sounded. “Oh, I wasn’t thinking, we can go to a pool hall instead—”

“No, no,” he said, clucking his tongue. “It’s already out there. Looks like I’ll have to be your gracious host. He lets you off on Sundays, right?”

Marta almost sighed in defeat. “Yes.”

“Good. Sunday night. Text me the ingredients for the soup.”

“It’s not a date,” she blurted out and then cringed as he laughed.

“I know that, Marta. Relax. That’s a whole different enchilada.”

She scowled. “You don’t have to be so condescending about it.”

“I’m not being condescending. I assume you wouldn’t stoop to date someone like me.”

“Someone like you?”

He shifted to face her on the couch a bit more, his expression mild. “I assume you like hardworking guys a few shades darker than me.”

Marta narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s stereotyping, you know.”

Ransom cocked his head slightly. “Do you date white guys?”

“I date all men.”

He licked his bottom lip, not breaking the eye contact. The gesture was uncanny; she’d seen a wolf do that on National Geographic as it eyed a little white bunny in the snow. “Is that right?”

Something in her belly quivered. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling slowly. “Good to know.”

They both returned their attention to the show. After a while, she went up and gave Harlan his nightly meds and put him to bed. She and Fran cleaned up the kitchen and Fran went home. Marta returned to the couch with Ransom and accidentally nodded off midway through an episode.

She awoke when he brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek. He’d been kneeling in front of the couch, a warm hand on her knee for balance, his smile a great deal softer than she’d seen it before, as if maybe he’d been admiring her. “Hey. It’s late. You should either head to bed or go home.”

She muttered something in Spanish, too tired to realize it. Ransom chuckled as her eyelids drooped again and made a snap decision. He scooped her up and carried her to the guest bedroom on the first floor, settling her under the knit quilt on top. She mumbled, _“Gracias, el lobo”_ and then curled into a little tired ball beneath the covers. He shut off the light and closed the door, heading to his car. He sat there with the engine purring and opened the Google Translate app on his phone, tapping in _“el lobo.”_

It translated to “the wolf.”

Ransom chuckled quietly and then drove off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marta and Ransom's dinner is rather eventful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, but it's a big 'un.

“It’s just dinner,” Marta mumbled to herself as she stared up at the intimidating million-dollar home of Ransom Drysdale. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You can be friends with clients.”

She waited to see if her stomach would freak out. It didn’t. It calmed her somewhat to know she was at least in line with her conscience.

Marta climbed out of her car and carried her little baggie of groceries with her up the steps of the spotless porch and rang the doorbell. Ransom appeared a moment later, and she couldn’t help but take a second to appreciate how he looked at home. He wore a soft, plain black t-shirt and jeans and dark patterned socks, his hair not as neatly combed as when he’d visit Harlan. It gave him a far more authentic aesthetic than what she was used to.

“Marta,” he said as he pushed the door wide enough to let her in.

“Ransom,” she said in return, toeing off her shoes without being asked after taking one look at the ludicrously expensive, polished wooden floors. She set them on the welcome mat and took off her jacket, which Ransom accepted and hung on the coat rack. She hadn’t been sure if he kept it warm or cold at his place, so she’d worn a comfortable violet turtleneck, yoga pants, and comfortable flats since she’d be standing a lot to show him how to prepare the meal. Now that she was barefoot, she was certainly happy she’d gotten a pedicure recently.

“Kitchen?” she asked.

“Through there,” Ransom said, pointing past her shoulder, but she noted he stayed behind her and got a very real sense it was due to the yoga pants. Her mouth wanted to smile. Predictable, yet she wasn’t offended. Maybe a rebellious part of her had wanted to see if he’d react to the sight of her in something other than baggy scrubs.

She took in the place as she walked with her groceries, noting that it was just as striking as he was, and a little cold from the lack of photographs of family or girlfriends. Instead, there were buildings and planes in color or classic black and white photos. The only indication of family was a very worn old framed photo on the mantle of whom she could only assume were ancestors of theirs. It appeared to be Depression-era or earlier. They were standing by a railroad, sullen and serious. Interesting.

“What’d you bring?” he asked once she reached the counter, tugging the plastic aside.

“Dessert,” Marta said with an easy smile. “Might as well have something sweet to go with it.”

“I thought that’s why you’re here,” he rumbled, winking as he helped her draw the items out of the bag. She made a little scoffing noise, but didn’t comment. He’d already set the ingredients for the stew out, so all but the beans—which had been soaking in water for the past six hours in the sink—were on display. She checked the items to make sure he had them all and then tied her hair into a messy bun, rolling up her sleeves.

“This is going to take a bit of time,” Marta admitted. “The beans have to cook for 45 minutes. We’re just going to chop the vegetables and prep the _tres leches_ cake in the meantime.”

“I’m sure we can entertain ourselves for that long,” he said, joining her at the sink to wash his hands. Their shoulders bumped, their sides grazing one another, nothing overt, but quite subtle. She dried her hands and gave him the towel before digging up a large pot, transferring the water, beans, and green pepper into it, and setting it to simmer on the stove. 

She stooped and hunted down a cutting board from under the cabinet and felt his gaze intently focused on her. Again, a little tremble of excitement trickled down her spine.

“I’ll peel the potatoes. Can you handle chopping the onions and garlic?”

Ransom examined the butcher knife she’d offered to him, handle-first. “Good thing you’re a nurse. I might slice off a finger.”

Marta chuckled. “You may not know how to cook, but you’re not clumsy, Ransom.”

She walked around to his side of the island counter and rolled the onion onto the cutting board. “First, cut off the bulb ends.”

Marta indicated the spot on either side where he should cut and he did so. He peeled off the outer layers and she threw them in the trash. “Cut it in half. Hold it on the sides and use one continuous motion, don’t try to saw through it.”

He cut the onion. She flipped them with the flat sides down. “Slice along the grains, nice and slow.”

She adjusted his hand on top of the onion and bent his fingers in. “You always want your knuckles facing the direction where the knife will fall, never your fingertips, so if it slips, it’s on a tougher part of your hand. Then you’ll flip it and cut the opposite way so that they’re diced.”

“Mm,” was all he grunted, and the vibration from the sound traveled over her upper body pleasantly. She returned to her side and withdrew a potato peeler from a nearby drawer, quickly starting on them after she’d rinsed them off. Ransom chopped slowly but surely, the pieces a bit rough but not bad. The concentration in his usually stoic features was nothing short of adorable, she found. He chopped both halves and scooped them into the prep bowl, then frowned at the bulb of garlic.

“Right, so this is a little tricky,” she explained as she joined him again, popping off four cloves. “You’re going to take the flat of your knife and basically crush it so you can take off the outer layers.”

He flipped the knife and she placed a clove under it, guiding his big palm over the thickest part. “Always use the heel of your hand and add pressure towards the non-sharp side so it doesn’t nick you. Press down until you hear a little crunch and then you can peel it out of there.”

Ransom lifted an eyebrow. “Is it just me or is cooking kind of dangerous?”

She laughed lightly. “Maybe a little, yes.”

He obeyed and repeated it on all four cloves. She helped him peel them and discard the outer layers. “Cut off the root end and then chop them length-wise and then in the other direction.”

She peeled and chopped the squash as he worked on those and then she moved onto the chorizo after she heated up a pan with some olive oil. Once the pan was hot, they brought the onions, garlic, and chorizo over to sauté them. Ransom appeared to genuinely pay attention to her cooking as she tossed the food and moved it around with the wooden spoon. She was a little surprised it held his interest, but then again, was it the cooking or was it her?

Marta added a bay leaf and then shut off the stove, covering it to cool and later be added to the beans when they were ready. He helped her dump the chopped potatoes and squash into the simmering beans and then cleaned off the counters.

“My turn,” Ransom drawled, crooking a finger at her as he headed towards the living area. She followed and couldn’t help but note that without his famous camel coat and giant cable-knit sweater, the view from behind was nothing short of spectacular. Ransom had a great ass.

Like the house itself, the pool table was immaculate. He’d already arranged the balls inside the triangle and held up the cue ball. “Right, so this little guy is either your best friend or your worst enemy. You have to learn to control him if you want to win.”

He selected a pool stick from the rack on the wall behind her. “You choose a pool stick based on your height, since you want it to be easy to handle and manipulate.”

Ransom handed her the shortest one and then lay a hand on the small of her back. It was huge and warm and her eyelids almost fluttered. “May I?”

She nodded. He moved her towards the table on the end opposite the triangle of pool balls. “This is called breaking. You want a swift, hard hit so that they all scattered into decent positions and you get at least one in if possible.”

He hefted the pool cue. “This is kind of confusing, but holding a pool cue is a little bit like holding chopsticks or a pencil. You want your non-dominant hand relaxed on the table and then you line it up parallel to your fingers, resting it on your thumb when you aim.”

Ransom leaned down and demonstrated. “Then you sight down the cue, not your arm, for where you want to aim. You use a precise motion to strike the cue ball and try to get it into a pocket.”

He aimed and broke the formation. The purple ball clunked into a pocket, the others bouncing around the felt-covered table. “So if you break and you knock one in, that’s your color. I knocked in a solid color, so that means I need to knock all the solid balls in and you need to knock all the striped balls in. You don’t knock the 8-ball in until you’ve knocked in all your balls or you lose. Then you have to announce which pocket when you go for the 8-ball and the first one to get it in after knocking in all their balls wins.”

Marta giggled. “This is extremely complicated.”

Ransom smirked. “Could be worse. Ever tried playing golf?”

“Oh, God, anything but that,” she groaned. “It puts me to sleep, it’s so boring.”

He chuckled. “Oh, it’s very boring, but it’s challenging.”

Ransom pointed to the table. “Alright, pick one.”

Marta’s eyes darted over the table, analyzing possibilities. Ransom hid a knowing smile. Finally, she chose the green striped near a corner pocket and shifted her way over. She bent and imitated how she’d seen him line up the shot. “Like this?”

“Almost,” he said. Then he stepped up behind her, his fingers sliding over the hand she used to aim with and adjusted the stick until she held the thicker end. He nudged her feet apart and then mirrored how she’d bent over to check the trajectory of the shot. Consequently, it meant his entire body dwarfed hers, aligning the two of them, his chest between her shoulder blades, his waist bumping her ass. He took the pool cue end as well to help her guide the movement, his mouth near her ear. “What you want is for the end of the pool cue to hit the ball where you want it to go and then the impact knocks the other one into the pocket. You have to consider how hard to hit it, where to hit it, and where it’ll go.”

“So this is a lot like Go, then,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear the eager tremble in her voice from being so close to him.

“Exactly. Look ahead. Now aim.” He slid the cool wood along the edge of her hand. “And give it a try.”

She struck. The balls clacked and the green striped went in with a loud clunk. Marta smiled, pleased, rising to full height. Ransom didn’t move away immediately, admiring the shot. “Not bad for a rookie. Let’s see if that beginner’s luck sticks around.”

They played. She missed quite a few times, but still knocked hers in. Ransom moved with strategic grace during his turns. She certainly didn’t mind the fact that playing meant watching him bend over multiple times. She liked the little wrinkle above his brow as he worked out a shot ahead of time. There was a thoughtfulness to it, not so brash and reckless as she’d known him to be. She didn’t realize just how much the Thrombeys influenced his outlandish, rude behavior. Granted, he had no excuse, but she could see that he fed off the chaotic energy they supplied in spades when they were together.

Periodically, they stopped to finish cooking the stew and to prepare the _tres leches_ cake. They made the batter together and put it in the oven, then returned to finish their game. Naturally, Ransom won, but Marta only lost by two balls, and felt rather proud of the fact for her first time playing. The stew finished simmering and they ate at the kitchen table rather than the formal dining room, which she could tell had likely stayed untouched since he’d moved in years ago.

“Do they come over?” Marta ventured to ask, nodding towards the dining room table.

“Nope,” Ransom said. “I like it that way. If we host any parties, it’s either Grandad’s or Linda’s. She considers herself the matron of the family, after all. Everything has to be her way or the highway.”

“I can relate, at least a little,” she admitted. “Mama is very particular about how she wants things to be done.”

She chewed her lip. “You don’t seem to like calling Linda your mother. Is that her preference or yours?”

Ransom narrowed his eyes slightly, but still answered. “Dunno. It just didn’t work out that way, me calling her that. Not since I was a kid.”’

His shoulders had tensed, his hands curling in slightly, so she knew to avoid the topic if she wanted to make it all the way to dessert. “Did you decorate yourself or hire someone?”

“Both,” he said, and his shoulders then relaxed, to her relief. “I chose the pieces and had them arrange them so it’d look good.”

Ransom nodded towards her. “So why are you still living with your family? I know Harlan pays well.”

“It’s personal preference,” she said. “If I pressed myself, yes, I could live alone, but I like being with them.”

“It doesn’t get claustrophobic in there?”

She shrugged. “I am used to it. There’s a sort of comfort of having someone familiar around.”

Marta didn’t realize what she’d said until she’d said it. A paralyzing silence fell, during which Ransom’s eye contact was as heavy as the layers of snow that Boston was known for in winter. She couldn’t figure out what to say to dispel the tension. He just kept up that long, intrusive stare. Then, finally, he dropped his gaze back to the stew.

“I can see that,” he said softly before another mouthful.

They finished eating and then cut hilariously oversized slices of the _tres leches_ cake. Marta watched with rapture as Ransom took the first bite. His lashes came down over his eyes and he simply growled. Her core tightened. It was…disturbingly sexy.

“Oh my God,” Ransom moaned, shaking his head. “I should’ve married you years ago, Marta.”

She laughed into her hand at the ecstasy in his expression. “That good?”

“That good,” he agreed as he dove in for more. “I don’t even like sweets. I’m probably gonna eat this entire pan in about two days.”

Marta giggled around her fork. “Nothing like a homemade meal.”

True to form, he demolished his slice and ate a second one, which only made her laugh more as he managed to smear the whipped cream in his haste to keep eating it. She grabbed a napkin once he was done and reached up to swipe some off of his cheek. “You’re making a mess, Ransom.”

She balled up the napkin and tossed it into the wastebasket. “You missed a spot.”

“Hmm?” Marta faced forward in time for Ransom to grip her right wrist, indicating her index finger, which had some of the lingering whipped cream on it.

Ransom idly lifted her hand up and sucked the whipped cream right off her finger.

Staring straight into her eyes as he did it.

Marta absolutely froze.

The wet heat of his mouth on her delicate, slender digit sent a zing of pleasure straight to her loins. Goosebumps flared across her from head to toe. Her breathing turned shallow as he hollowed out his cheeks sucking her finger, the rough brush of his tongue causing her to jump slightly. His brilliant cornflower blue eyes demanded her attention, as if nothing else existed. She knew then that everything since she first beat him at Go had been a very intentional slow seduction.

And it excited the hell out of her.

Ransom released her finger with a slow slurp. She retracted her arm, her entire body thrumming with adrenaline. She didn’t know what to do. Thankfully, Ransom did.

He reached out and grazed his thumb across the corner of her lips, catching a bit of whipped cream she hadn’t noticed was there either. He dragged his thumb down across her lower lip, smearing it there. She took his cue and lapped it up, eventually sucking on his wayward thumb. Ransom’s chest rose and fell with heavy, excited breaths, his pupils blown wide, towering over her as he always did, yet she didn’t feel threatened as she had before. Once she’d cleared the cream away, he ran his thumb across her full lips, tracing their shape, as if memorizing it. He finally cupped her cheek and darted down to her height, stealing a kiss just as hot as the chorizo had tasted on her tongue earlier. Her eyes shut. Her senses reeled. Pleasure she hadn’t felt in months dripped down over her body. She felt dizzy and hyper at the same time, dying to experience more of this hypnotic man.

“Fuck,” Ransom hissed against her mouth, biting her lower lip. “ _Fuck_ , you taste good, sweetheart. I’ve wanted to do this for the longest time.”

He grasped her hips hard and picked her up, sitting her on the island counter beside the dessert. He shoved her knees apart to stand between them and her thighs clamped down over his waist immediately to help alleviate the throbbing ache between them. Ransom kissed her ravenously, his hands climbing up her sides to stroke her upper torso. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back just as fervently, lashing at his tongue for the sweet access to his mouth. The cream and sugar and vanilla blended perfect with his natural taste. She bit at his lips, moaning in between sloppy kisses, raking her nails over his scalp as she grabbed a handful of that thick, dark hair.

Ransom reached back and hauled off his shirt. Marta nearly shrieked with praise as her eyes fell upon the rippling muscles she’d guiltily thought about more than once during her private sessions under the sheets on those lonely nights. She lunged for his bared skin, kissing his neck, licking his Adam’s apple, her fingers sliding down over his sculpted pecs and clawing lightly at his cobblestone abs.

He worked his hands underneath her turtleneck and she cried out at his touch. The pads of his fingers were shockingly soft and he ran them up and down her spine, eventually pulling her shirt off. His mouth skimmed past the edge of her jaw to her throat, his hands exploring the expanse of her shoulder blades and smoothing down towards her waist as he drew a line of messy kisses across the column of her throat, skillfully grinding the bulge in his jeans against her wet center. The panties soaked through first, the yoga pants following suit not long after. She couldn’t help bucking into the pressure he provided, stars popping in the edges of her vision each time the ridge of his cock brushed her clit.

He licked over her cleavage and snatched the bra strap off in a quick motion. He pulled back enough to give her an NC-17 worthy smirk as he dipped one finger in the _tres leches_ cake and gently covered both her nipples with whipped cream. He sucked them clean with devious slowness, biting gently to coax more shaky moans out of her as she raked her nails over his broad shoulders. He pushed her flat to the counter and peeled off the yoga pants and panties at the same time, leaving her bare under his scorching gaze at last. He plunged a hand between her thighs before she could get her bearings, slipping two fingers inside her. They slid in insultingly easy. Marta all but howled his name in rapture as a surge of pure heat hit her and flash-fried every nerve ending in her body. She whimpered and twitched underneath him from the aftershocks of the initial pleasure, now driven entirely by the need for completion. Ransom obliged her with gusto, his other hand clamped onto one full, round cheek of her ass to lift her up as he mercilessly pumped his fingers into her sopping walls. He fucked her to her first orgasm in under five minutes, his piercing gaze pinning hers as he watched hungrily for the elation to fill her pretty features.

She’d hardly come down from it when he scooped more whipped cream onto his fingers and lightly traced around her walls with it, this time propping her legs on his shoulders. If she’d had more mental faculties at the time, she may have clamped her thighs shut out of modesty, but she didn’t. She slid her fingers into his hair and simply held on through the heavenly assault of his tongue lapping up the honey spilling from her, mixing with the cream, his lips all too happy to drive hysterical moans out of her one at a time. He cleaned off every bit of the dessert topping and then fucked his tongue into her until she couldn’t help but succumb once more to the climax. She shuddered in place, boneless and limp, floating off into the heavens as Ransom kissed his way up her belly and massaged her breasts in each hand. He vacated the space between her legs briefly and she heard the crinkle of foil. A moment later, he reemerged and shoved his jeans down past his thighs, exposing what she had correctly assumed was an enormous, healthy cock. Her mouth watered. She wanted to extract just as many screams and sighs from him, but she could tell she’d have to wait as he hastily applied the condom and jerked her body closer to the edge of the counter.

“God, Cabrera,” he growled, drinking in the sight of pretty, flushed naked body beneath him. “I’m never gonna get you out of my fucking head, am I?”

Marta licked her slightly swollen lips. “Do you want to?”

Ransom smirked. “Point taken.”

Then he was fucking her and it was _everything._

He latched his big hands onto her ankles, holding her legs aloft so she couldn’t close them to his vicious rhythm, and Marta lost every ounce of her careful control. He pummeled her soft, soaking walls into submission, every thrust so succulent it traveled right up her spine and then reverberated back down to her sweet spot. She clawed at his chest just to give herself something to do and he groaned with sheer want, loving the pink marks she left over his skin, the pain only sweetening the intoxicating pleasure that had pulled him under.

As he felt her tumbling hopelessly towards the climax, Ransom propped her legs onto his shoulders and held her tiny waist in his hands, jerking her against his pelvis and onto his cock harder still. Marta gripped the edge of the counter, her head flying back as she flew towards her end. “Ransom!”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he purred. “Take it. Take it all. Take it all straight in this sweet little pussy for me. Come on this cock, Marta. Come with everything you’ve got, baby.”

“God! Ransom!” Her spine arched. Her toes curled. She hurtled into her orgasm at a thousand miles an hour, unraveled, undone, and absolutely elated.

Ransom rolled his hips and memorized the way she looked underneath him, conquered, yet in complete control of everything that was him somehow. He’d longed for this moment, for the most selfish of reasons, and yet he knew it was more than simple lust. He’d never felt anything so sweet, so fulfilling, so satisfying. The sight of her pleasure was more than enough for him to claim his own, as was the knowledge that someone so pure and good could find him just as compelling and desirable.

But did he deserve it?

Marta’s lovely body curled up into his powerful strokes and she opened her eyes as if she’d sensed that conflict in him. She reached up and stroked the side of his face, a serene smile on those pouty lips. “Come, Ransom. Come for me.”

His heart throbbed nearly painfully at the soft encouragement. He let his eyes fall shut, his head tilting forward as he finished inside her, groaning out her name as the searing heat consumed him entirely. He slowed his movements, but didn’t stop, drawing out her pleasure as well until every last drop had been extracted. He rearranged her legs to loop around his waist and collapsed forward, absently finding her lips once more to kiss her. Marta cradled him against her, sighing wistfully as the afterglow settled over them and the hellfire of their sex cooled to embers.

Ransom smiled down at her. “We’re a piping hot mess, aren’t we?”

Marta giggled. “Yes, I’m afraid we are.”

He shook his head. “And it all started with a game of Go. Who knew?”

“Harlan,” Marta said with sudden serious suspicion. “Do you think he—”

“That is a strong possibility,” Ransom agreed. “Remind me to thank him.”

He pulled out, disposed of the condom, and carried her bridal-style upstairs to his bed. Once they’d cleaned up and settled down, Ransom leaned across and brandished the Go board he kept in the nightstand. “One last shot. All or nothing.”

Marta’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “It’s your funeral.”

They scooted to allow for enough room on the bed and sat, cocooned in covers, playing. Ransom stole little kisses in between moves, nipping her ear lobe, her lower lip, pleased every time it made her giggle.

“Damn,” he murmured in amazement at his final stunning loss. “You really are the best.”

Marta shook her head. “One of these days, you’re going to learn to play for fun, Ransom.”

He leaned in and kissed her slowly, fearlessly staring into her eyes as he did.

“I’d rather play for keeps.”

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Marta Cabrera prevented the murder of Harlan Thrombey. But that's just my opinion.


End file.
